The Rain and the Radio
by Random Minion
Summary: Ginny is delirious and someone comes to care for her is it Tom or Harry? A new twist on the old hurtcomfort idea.


**The Rain and the Radio**

AN: This fic is a bit of a spring off from my recently finished fic Norwegian Wood. If you insist on giving this a context, consider it part a day in the life of that continuing relationship. 

*** 

The music bumped and flopped filling the room, encircling the furniture. Usually Ginny would have danced; now she didn't even sway in her chair. She felt cold despite the voluminous quilt. It probably wasn't cold at all; most likely she had a fever, but knowing this did not stop the shivering. 

_It's all false._ She though deliriously. Somewhere in the back of her mind there was a great patch of purple. It was in the room, where the back of her mind merged with the room. Through it, stamping in time with the snare drum came Tom. Petrified, she sat even stiller, the music from the radio surrounding them both. She couldn't see him with her eyes but she knew he danced. He was dancing the way she would have if he hadn't frozen her. 

The minutes dragged by and he made no move towards her. The song ended and another one began, this one a howling rendition of the classic "Only in Your Dreams Hag." She felt a wave of goose bumps rolling over her. The hairs on her arm were rising and the small of her back was arched uncomfortably. Her head felt heavy and the purple was sinking in a puddle, the rain from outside her window rippling its' surface like a million invisible people dancing on a tiny lake, to the music. 

It swelled again, a new song, she still didn't move. They were moving for her, if she could only see the effect they made on the surface. Wasn't there someone she should remember? She didn't want to move, only to sleep. And she was so close as it was, the chair felt warm, she shivered wildly wanting to be closer to it, warmth which was her own. 

The quilt had slipped back away from her thigh and she could see the bumps that rose as she thought about it. The shivering increased. If only she moved the blanket she would be fine. Even better go back to bed, but the music was forcing her back into her chair like a great wave of shivers and a cold rain that pounded over her and the house. 

The bed would be cold horribly cold, the covers had been pulled back when she had gotten out and the heat had been allowed to disperse into the freezing air. No, it was better to be cold now here than to freeze there. Her eyes unfocused from the radio, leaving all a blur. She had to concentrate if she wanted to think clearly with the music. 

Was it really worth the effort? Her eyes hurt from the lack of focus. She had to pull herself back, make them focus, but it took so much energy, something she didn't have. It felt as if Tom was there again, as he had been back when she had been a child, back in the chamber of secrets. Yes, he had been there a minute ago, hadn't he? Watching and waiting for her, behind that great screen of purple, she would close her eyes pretend to sleep until Harry brought her soup, until some one came and rescued her, pulled her blanket around her freezing thigh. 

She would trick him, close her eyes and pretend to sleep, and when he walked towards her she would seize him, shove him back and scream for help. Her limbs now burned with energy and with intense heat she could burn him just to touch him, as Harry did, make him fade away, crumble into ash. 

The music took on a new tone, more upbeat, intense. The drummer was crowing over his drums, and the singer was arrogantly belting out his lines, filling the space in front of him with the heat of his breath, and the heat of his personality, inciting millions to love him. Was that the power also of the man behind her? Had he too filled the world with love for himself? So many had followed him. 

Her own burning skin would be too hot; it would sap his strength as it had her. Irritably she tossed off the covers to reveal hot sweat shining over the exposed thigh. She wanted to stretch out some where cold. The bed, it was perfect, not a trace of this overwhelming heat. It could suck it out of her. Rising, her back still to the man who stood perfectly unmoving in the door, she stumbled, faltering a rush of disorientation. The music was pushing her senses, repeating the same thing over and over. Was it stuck? No, maybe she was; no, she caught herself over the back of the chair as she almost collapsed on to the floor. 

Her feet felt the ice of the floor but it was as if she were immune to it. So much heat filled her body, she stepped with purpose to the bed leaving the quilt behind, what use had she for it, it trailed after her, sad to part as if fell away from her body trailing sadly, briefly she looked over to the corner, no he was a tricky one he was invisible now, or gone away to return when he knew she was venerable aging to her cold. 

She stretched out on the bed, it felt like smooth waves of cool classical music, rolling over her again and again. It was too much, she couldn't look at it anymore, the pattern of the sheets was too confusing, the colours to muted, the song felt misted too as she mashed the soft pillows around her. Under the music and over her head there was the constant thrum of water, reminding her that she was thirst that he throat burned, the molecule making the rain had been taken out of her, and she wanted more. 

There was an empty glass at eye level on the table, violently she shivered and the cold over took her again, engulfing her as a new song blasted and tom stepped back into the room, 

"Water, please." She begged but he only told her no shaking his head, 

"You shouldn't have too much." 

They matched, Tom and Harry. She had never noticed before this moment that they both had a scar. Harry must have given it too him at their final meeting. His eyes were no longer red either, and he held out a spoon, saying, "Here." Where? The music answered that, here with you. Oh yes, he was here with me, me here with him. 

"Here." He offered the spoon again. 

Here, there was a thick purple in the spoon, thick and sweet, but bitter; I swallowed painfully and gagged. 

"Water?" 

As if by magic, there he held water. I took it, wanting to gulp, but he took it away after only a sip. 

"More." I demanded my hot hand grasping his cool one. 

The music reached a crescendo and she reached slowly away. 

"No, you'll only bring it up again." 

What cruelty. He put it down on the table only feet away from me. I knew I couldn't get it then, there was no way. 

"Sleep now." he said, just as he all those years and years ago. 

Gentle cruelty, like the music, still playing gently in the background, marginalized but still sapping at my attention. He sat back watching me, I would do nothing, I was floating to high, floating with the slowly deepening rain, falling with it back into the music, which lightly mimicked me mimicking it and spiralled away into a haze of cold. 

*** 

AN: many thanks to my beta BOB. I am planning on entering a short fiction contest with this piece; any criticism or room for improvement would be greatly appreciated. Caaamon! You know you wanna! 


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